


Secrets of Marble

by Oreste_et_Pylade



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Era, Guilty Enjolras, Hurt Grantaire, M/M, What Could Possibly Go Wrong?, both emotionally and physically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2016-08-17
Packaged: 2018-08-09 10:36:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7798480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oreste_et_Pylade/pseuds/Oreste_et_Pylade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is stuck in a quarry with Enjolras after an argument. What could possibly go wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Secrets of Marble

**Author's Note:**

> I think this is the first E/R fanfiction I wrote but for some reason I haven't posted it on AO3 yet, so here you go! Please comment to let me know if you enjoyed it or not! *puppy dog eyes*

Grantaire looked up and his heart sank. His Apollo was standing there, looking down at him with disdain.

He had failed him.

At that moment, nothing else mattered. Completely forgetting about making his excuses to the man he was playing dominoes with, he stood up and hurried after Enjolras.

He went outside and looked around, catching a glimpse of his leader just as he disappeared around the corner. Cursing his uselessness, he ran after him, being careful to make no sound. He was sure Enjolras would not want to speak to him and would avoid him if he knew he was there.

Of course Grantaire had been listening to his every word, so he knew that he was headed to the quarries in the Plain of Issy. He knew the way there, as to everywhere else of consequence in Paris, so he was able to stay a safe distance behind Enjolras without fear of losing him.

Once they reached the quarry, Grantaire knew he had to speak to Enjolras before he met with the Cougourde d’Aix. He broke into a run and caught up with him. He watched slowly as his Apollo turned around, anger written all over his face.

‘Go away,’ he said. ‘You dishonour the cause. You are unworthy of being one of us.’

The words were harsher than any he had heard so far. They would have hurt anyone, but especially Grantaire, and especially coming from Enjolras. He did not know what to say. He could not disagree with Enjolras – he was right, he was always right.

He stared at him, wanting to say something, but was at a complete loss for words. His bottom lip quivered as he tried to hold back his tears. He could not let Enjolras see him like this; he already knew he was weak and despised him.

The leader turned away and Grantaire, unable to resist his instincts, reached out and grabbed his sleeve. Enjolras pushed him away with his elbow, which made contact with Grantaire’s throat, causing him to choke and fall back.

Enjolras had not meant to push Grantaire that hard, and he had been unaware of the stone wall of the chalk quarry behind him. Grantaire had fallen back against this wall and hit his head. Momentarily, his anger was replaced by concern for his comrade, and he knelt down beside him. A streak of blood was flowing from underneath his dark curls. He looked up into Enjolras’ eyes, but then seemed to notice something beyond his shoulder.

Instantly, he sprang up and slammed into Enjolras, pushing him out of the way just in time. The spot where Enjolras had been a second before was now covered in chunks of chalk that had evidently been stacked above and had come loose when Grantaire had hit the wall.

In the cloud of dust that had arisen, nothing could be seen, but suddenly the drunkard felt Enjolras’ arm slipping out from under him and lunged in the direction it was going. His body twisted painfully as his knees made contact with the ground, but the upper half of his body was suspended in mid-air. His hand still holding onto Enjolras’ sleeve, he tried to pull him up, but instead he was being pulled down.

Then, his feet were no longer in contact with the ground and he fell straight down. It was not a very big drop, but he landed on his left arm, which let out a cracking sound. He gasped in pain and found that he could not move it.

It was a few moments until the dust had cleared, but after that he could just about see in the dim light coming from above. He was in some kind of fissure in the surface of the rock. He could climb up easily enough. That is, he would have been able to, had he not broken his arm. He would need Enjolras’ help to climb up.

He concluded he would not leave this place.

Then he remembered the arm that had pulled him down there. He remembered who was attached to that arm. He looked around desperately, searching for him.

His heart stopped when he saw Enjolras lying on the ground, but he observed with relief that his leader was slowly getting up. Except for the dust he was covered in, there was no sign on Enjolras that he had almost been killed and had fallen nearly two metres.

Grantaire himself was too weak to stand, but Enjolras pulled him to his feet by the collar of his shirt. He stayed like that for a moment, then spoke.

‘Why did you do that?’ he asked. Grantaire loved listening to his angelic voice so much and he was so glad that Enjolras was still speaking to him that he almost forgot about the question. Then he became aware of impatient, blue eyes that seemed to be boring into his mind and answered softly.

‘You had your back turned to the rocks. You wouldn’t have noticed them in time. You would have died.’ Enjolras did not overlook the way the cynic’s voice broke with that last sentence.

‘But why did you push me out of the way? I hurt you.’ Enjolras himself was not sure whether he meant pushing Grantaire onto the rocks or the unkind words he had said. He remembered the tears in Grantaire’s eyes and found himself unable to look into the green eyes, an unknown feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Grantaire, on the other hand, was both amazed at Enjolras’ apology and outraged at his unawareness of how much Grantaire cared about him. He forced himself to speak. His soft voice, full of incredulity, was barely more than a whisper.

‘You think I care for you so little that I wouldn’t have saved your life if I could?’ His voice was steadily growing louder and seemed on the verge of tears. Every word was carefully chosen.                                                                                                                                                              

‘That I wouldn’t have given my life for yours if I could!? Enjolras, _you are the only thing that matters._ My life is worthless without you. You know it too. You ask me why I still come to your meetings if I don’t believe in the cause. That is true – I don’t believe in it because there will be no revolution. The people will not rise and you will die.’                                                                                                         

Again, Grantaire’s voice broke at the mention of Enjolras’ death.

‘I don’t want you to die. If you die, I will die with you. You are always right: I am not good for anything, I am not capable of anything. But you go too far when you say I don’t believe in anything.’ His voice turned into a whimper, punctured by sobs.                                                                                 

‘I believe in you. I believe in _you_ , Enjolras, and I have accepted that you will never believe in me.’

The silence that followed was broken only by Grantaire’s cries. His tears only increased now that he realised Enjolras had seen him weep. He had seen him at his weakest. He had been told all of Grantaire’s most secret feelings, and they had come from the drunkard’s own lips.

Eventually, the golden-haired man could not stand the guilt he felt any longer. He decided to do something, and started by grasping Grantaire’s left arm. For a moment, he was unaware of what had caused the sharp intake of breath but then he noticed the odd angle at which his arm was sticking out. Grantaire had sustained this injury when he tried to stop Enjolras falling. That took the tally up to two injuries that were Enjolras’ fault today. And those were just injuries of the physical kind.

Not knowing what else to do, he wrapped his arms around Grantaire’s trembling frame. This obviously shocked the cynic, but after barely a moment’s hesitation, he buried his face in Enjolras’ shoulder and let his tears flow freely, soaking his leader’s coat. That was another thing he would blame himself for later, but for now he pushed the thought out of his mind with surprising ease and savoured every moment of the embrace. He had no intention of stopping it.

After what must have been several minutes, Enjolras slowly moved away, but his hands still rested on Grantaire’s shoulders.

‘Grantaire, I… I didn’t know any of this.’ He felt stupid as soon as the words left his mouth: something which had never happened before to the natural speechmaker.

‘Of course you didn’t. No-one knows about it.’

‘You should have told me.’

‘I should have. But it was too hard. And tell me, what would you have done if you had known?’

Enjolras thought about his answer. He never lied, and his conscience was telling him that he would not have done anything differently. But as he opened his mouth to answer, there was another, superior voice speaking through him. It said something completely different to what he was thinking, yet he knew it was right.

‘In fact, it would have changed everything.’ Grantaire looked up at him in disbelief. Enjolras cleared his throat and carried on speaking.    

‘I would have known more about who you are. I would have seen that you are not worthless, and are just as passionate about your cause as any of us. We may not believe in the same things, but we are certainly the same. You are a Friend of the ABC just as much as I, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Feuilly and all the others. You are just as willing to die for your cause as we are, perhaps even more. I have only one thing to ask. Why choose to believe in me? Why am I your cause?’

‘Choice plays no part in it,’ Grantaire chuckled. Upon seeing Enjolras’ questioning gaze, he ventured to explain further, to tell him the whole truth. He had nothing to lose.

But then he stopped.

He _did_ have something to lose, after all. He had a great deal to lose. Grantaire had gained Enjolras’ respect. That was something he had never hoped to have. The words he was about to speak would decide whether he would keep that respect for much longer. But what if he did not say anything? That would be keeping a secret from his Apollo, which was as bad as lying. And he could never lie to Enjolras.

‘I…’ he struggled to say it.

It was just three words, ones that had been built up by poets to become much more than just that. But that was all it was: three words, three syllables, eight letters. Yet these eight letters could ruin his life if spoken now. However, he did not want Enjolras to see him as cowardly, so he said them. Slowly, gently and clearly.

‘I love you.’

His eyes were shut tightly, his head turned to the side as if he was expecting to be punched. His hands were shaking, but then he felt warm, smooth skin on his right hand; long, thin fingers entwined with his. He opened his frightened eyes, and saw Enjolras smiling at him softly. His Apollo, smiling.

‘I think I should help you get out of here,’ he said.


End file.
